


Make sure you see, not just observe

by faerywhimsy (persephone20)



Series: If Convenient... [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hope, M/M, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 02-03 Hiatus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-06
Updated: 2012-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-30 16:45:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/333871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/persephone20/pseuds/faerywhimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John mourns Sherlock, but may just not have to for much longer. Post-Reichenbach 2X03.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For those on Twitter, all of this is thanks to 'John's' account:
> 
>  
> 
> [](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seenotjustobserve.jpg)  
> 

The days drag on for a long time after the funeral. _The_ funeral. Never Sher--'s ... Never that. 

John has taken only to speaking Sherlock's name inside their apartment. While he's alone. He has taken to pulling an abstracted expression, as though he does not quite know what they are talking about, whenever Molly or Lestrade happen to mention him. They are beginning to correct themselves more quickly these days. Sherlock's name has almost entirely disappeared from conversation.

And John is starting to wonder whether he's made a big mistake. 

But no. The dead are meant to live on in the lives of the living. But Sherlock isn't dead. That's what John keeps on telling himself. 

Another day spent filling time comes to an end, and John looks down in disgust at the obligatory cigarette butts he's grown used to greeting him at home in the place of his best friend.

"That punk in the hoodie's been by again," John calls up, as he takes the stairs to the apartment two at a time. 

"What was that, dear?" calls Mrs. Hudson from her own rooms.

"Nothing, Mrs. Hudson," John calls back, and hear's a distracted, "Very good, dear," as he shuts the apartment door behind him.

"Why do you suppose he keeps hanging around here?" John asks the question into the air as he takes off his scarf and jacket and hangs them on the coat stand just inside the door. "It can't be the ambiance. And, I've got to say, with our history, I just don't like it very much when unexpected people hover outside our apartment." John takes off his shoe, and scrunches his face in distaste as he finds a flattened cigarette stuck to the underside of his shoe. " _Especially_ when they leave cigarette butts lying everywhere. Seriously, Sherlock, I have never known anyone but you who needed so much nicotine in their system."

Heaving a disgruntled huff, John nonetheless stores his shoes neatly beside one another. No need to make this place into a mess. He goes into the kitchen to put the kettle on, glancing out through the kitchen window on his way through.

"Look, _there_ he is again. Smug bastard." That last, under John's breath. "Why do you think he keeps hanging around here? I keep looking for some kind of give away; something on his lapel, a hair out of place or a colour not his own, maybe even a shiny piece of jewellery, you know, one of your answers."

Shaking his head, he moves to the fridge where there is milk. Of course there's milk; Sherlock hasn't drunk it all and then neglected to replace it. 

_Seriously, Sherlock, I have never known anyone but you who needed so much nicotine in their system._

And then, an echo of Sherlock's voice, as if his best friend is finally standing in front of him once again,

_Be wary that you not only see, but also observe, John._

John's eyes widen, even as the milk carton slips from his hand and falls onto the linoleum of the floor. John rushes to the sink, his knuckles whiten as they grip the side of the bench. 

For once, he's not noticing the cigarette butts littering the front doorstep, nor is he begrudging the punk his place on the sidewalk. Instead, he's peering into the mouth of the hoodie.

And then the punk lifts his face towards 22B Baker Street, and John's heart drops to his stomach, his mouth goes dry, because those are pale blue eyes staring out of a gaunt face, sharp cheekbones giving way to dark brown curls that frame that familiar face. His full lips are slightly parted as he stares up at John as though there are not two levels and a pane of glass separating them. 

"...Sherlock?"

John pushes himself from the sink, dashes towards the front door. His arm darts out on the way to grab his jacket and scarf. It's a reflex, only costing him precious seconds on the way out, but he'll beat himself up when he reaches the front doorstep and there's no punk in a hoodie, no Sherlock, no anybody there at all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From John:
> 
> [](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seenotjustobserve-1.jpg)   
> 

"I'm not seeing things!" John just narrowly misses banging on the table to make his point. What he's really worried about here is that Molly's right. He didn't really see the man in the hoodie that clearly, there had been a storey between them. 

He doesn't want to say any of these things. 

He doesn't need to. It's like Molly can read his thoughts, can see them for what they are. "Sometimes, when we want to see a thing really bad, our minds will help see it for us, whether we want it to or not." Her voice holds pity in it. He doesn't want her pity.

John lets out a self-deprecating chuckle. "When did you become the resident psychologist? I thought you made your work as a mortician."

"Yes, well." Molly smiles in that way she does when she doesn't exactly know the next right thing to say. He saw it a lot when Molly used to deal with Sherlock. He's less used to seeing her do it with him, but he's starting to get used to it. The sudden lack of Sherlock has affected them all in different ways.

John slumps. It was right. She was right. Everything Molly said was right.

"I'm imagining it. I know. I just..." He cuts himself off short. Even now, even this long after it had happened, he can't quite make himself articulate aloud how much he wants Sherlock back. Needs him back. It's like, he wasted that opportunity while Sherlock was still alive, he doesn't have the right to admit to it now. 

Molly says something. "Nobody expects your grieving to stop overnight..."

"No, I know," John mutters, staring into his less than steaming cup of coffee. It has become little more than a point of focus and a hand warmer. He doesn't think he'd taken even a sip of it from the time it was given to him. 

Molly just gazes at him, saying nothing. John doesn't even try to interpret the look he sees in his eyes. It's too easy to spark the hope when he thinks he sees her struggling not to tell him something.

Unexpectedly, her hand reaches across the table to take his. "It's going to be okay, John. You will get through this."

Stiff upper lip time. John takes a deep, not at all steadying, breath. "Yeah. Time heals all wounds, right? Isn't that what they say?"

Molly offers a small half smile. "That's what they say."

"Right. Right then." With a jerky nod, John pulls his fingers out from under hers. "Well, I've taken enough of your time. Enough of your coffee products." He'd always been a tea man anyway. He had no idea what had inspired him to accept an offer of coffee.

It's times like this that he really misses his short lived affair with his walking cane. Times when he didn't know what to do with his hands. They were all too frequent nowadays. Settling for another completely awkward head nod, John excuses himself. 

He still sends messages to Sherlock. It's part of that keeping him alive in that way that completely ignored the fact of his death. 

_I might re-order your books. You may have known where they all are, but I don't. Now, alphabetical by title or author..._

This thought occurs to him about halfway between Molly's work and 22B Baker Street. It's a welcome distraction from the man in the hoodie. Books are a still tangible item. They don't require a lot of thought or effort just to exist. Well, not in the case of normal peoples' collections. Which was exactly the thought that led to the text message. 

Another 20 minutes and John reaches home feeling that, although his feet are tired, the long walk has done him good. It's exercise at least, and that'll help him sleep. Maybe. 

Probably not.

His stomach gurgles as he steps into the apartment, reminding him again that it's once again one of those times of day when it's time to eat and he hasn't made any preparations for it. After rummaging in the kitchen for something that John already knows hasn't yet been bought yet, John makes himself the promise that he'll go on a real shop tomorrow. But, tonight is going to be another pizza night.

He goes to the computer to put through an online order. 

And on the bookshelf, on the shelf that is level with his head before he sits down, there's a letter penned in clear, slanting letters, that says only,

_By title._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This post refers to a 'conversation' started about Mycroft two weeks ago. It's too long for me to be bothered to screencap, though, so here's the transcript:
> 
> @WatsonJW  
> Dr John Watson  
> @LestradeGL He hasn't told you what he did? T-to Sherlock?
> 
> @LestradeGL  
> Gregory Lestrade  
> @WatsonJW Oh, bugger. Didn't we get pissed to forget about this?
> 
> @WatsonJW  
> Dr John Watson  
> @LestradeGL Forget? No. Avoid. Hence why I'm on the floor.
> 
> @LestradeGL  
> Gregory Lestrade  
> @WatsonJW There's no broken glass down there, right? I'm coming down.
> 
> @WatsonJW  
> Dr John Watson  
> @LestradeGL Only a bit wet. Bring coasters.
> 
> @LestradeGL  
> Gregory Lestrade  
> @WatsonJW A BIT wet? My trousers are soaked!
> 
> @WatsonJW  
> Dr John Watson  
> @LestradeGL Should I have said coasters and napkins?  
> 26 Jan Favorite Retweet Reply

John storms from the house. He walks for six blocks before the vibration of his phone signifying a message makes him jump. His fingers shake unaccountably as he draws the phone from his pocket. The first few times he reads over the message, he imagines the _SH_ signature at the bottom. 

It isn't there. 

John grounds out a harsh sigh, feeling it shudder through him, feeling it skate through his front teeth.

_Molly says you've been having a hard time of it again. Feel like a pint down at the bar? Greg._

John isn't sure when he starts to laugh. It isn't a happy sound.

"I'm being haunted," he says, he says to a random half dozen residents of London who just happen to be sharing the same streets as John Watson this oh so dreary night. "I'm being haunted by a man who everyone insists is..."

Stops short. Even then he can't bring himself to say the word.

He sighs. Mutters a couple of short 'sorry's to people who are still looking cautiously at him as they pass him by. Flipping out his phone, he responds to Greg's text.

_Meet you there. What time?_

_Now. I'm knocking off work now._

*

The last time John and Greg had met for just a drink at the bar, it had been an illustrious affair involving two grown men on the floor of the pub, their beer on coasters. And they still weren't talking to Mycroft. And Mrs. Hudson had stopped offering to do his laundry after that. Which, on balance, was actually a good thing. Since she wasn't his housekeeper.

John's brain starts to pang with sympathy pains for itself at these memories. Tonight wasn't going to be anything like that.

"So," begins Greg's opening gambit as the two men sit like gentleman at their table rather than beneath it. "What's been wrong with you?"

"Who says anything's wrong?"

Greg pulls an expression that John imagines multiple people coming through the station have come to face to face with when they've offered a paper thin lie to the impeccable Inspector Lestrade. "Please. She called me to check in on you. She wouldn't have done that for just anything after the last time."

"Please." John rubs already aching temples. "I'm trying not to think about that."

"I'll drink to that." There's a ghost of a smile on Greg's lips as he lifts his glass up to them. "So, what are we going to talk about tonight?"

John gives a distracted shrug. "I got a note from him today."

"I'm sorry. From who?"

John just lifts his eyes and gives Greg a baleful stare. There can be no mistaking who John is talking about.

"Ah. Well. You've said someone on formspring said it was your fault Sherlock was dead? There are a lot of crackpots in London right now. Moriaty was proof of that. And the two of you were never very secretive about where you lived. We can do something to stop people planting letters in there. We'll have someone to watch the house just until we get... this..."

John blanched from the point of Greg stating Sherlock was dead. In his Efficient Inspector Mode, Greg completely missed all the signs of John shutting down, shutting himself away from the conversation. No sign of PTSD, his ass! 

"I'm sorry, John." Greg swallows, trying to think whether it would be better to reach out and touch him, or not. What if physical contact pushed him further into his spiral? 

What if not reaching out to him had the same effect? 

"I don't know what to do here, John," Greg admits to him, hoping John still has the wherewithal to pull himself out.

When John slowly shakes his head, Greg breathes out a harsh breath of relief. 

"Sorry. Thanks for the drink. I've gotta go." 

"John! Did you want someone watching your house, or not?"

John doesn't say anything, certainly not what he's thinking. He has heard everything that Greg has said, has processed it, and come to the decision he had let Molly talk him out of earlier that night. If indeed it is Sherlock out there, he's damned well not going to do a single thing that might dissuade contact, in whatever form that takes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve.jpg)

Around the time that his eyelids have closed without him realising it, John decides to accede to Lestrade and Mycroft's helpful assertions that he go to bed. He actually prefers it when he's this tired before going to sleep. Completely sidesteps that whole pointlessly lying awake in bed part of the night. 

Putting his laptop away, or at least putting down the lid so that nothing more than the flashing blue light can tempt him--and in truth, not even that since his eyes have already half closed again--John gets up and makes his way down the hall to his familiar bedroom. 

It's not a room that Sherlock ever spent any time in, which is probably the reason he's never had any troubles in sleeping here over the last few weeks. It's not a room that Sherlock ever spent any time in, but that doesn't stop Watson's imagination from conjuring him up. 

He forgets that point where he put himself to bed, lying down and closing his eyes rather than falling asleep sitting up. In his dream, Sherlock enters the room behind him, while John is loosening the tie he wore today, undoing the top buttons. It takes longer than usual, a) because it's a dream and, b) because even in his dream, John comes across as exhausted. He can summon no more than a sigh of relief and a gentle smile when his eyes fall upon Sherlock. 

"I knew you'd come back to me." John's voice is thick, but mind makes up a reason for that. Feelings for this man that go deeper than friendship, and a desire to express those feelings without words.

Even in dream, John never doubts that the tone of his voice will be enough for Sherlock to pick up the facts.

In answer to John, Sherlock's lip quirks. John can see it even in the limited light coming in through the window. London is never completely dark, not even at two in the morning. 

"You always believed in me too much," he says, finally.

"Oi, and I suppose you think that's some kind of failing," John returns.

Sherlock considers John for a moment, then replies, "No. Some things are not failures."

He sweeps towards John then. John also takes a step forward, stumbles, checks himself, and then suddenly one of Sherlock's strong arms is around him, keeping him upright. John flushes, aware that Sherlock is now pressed against him from shoulder to thigh. 

"Here," Sherlock murmurs, and John thinks that he can hear the thickness in his more-than-friend's voice, a response "You seem to be having trouble with that."

John turns control over to Sherlock without another word. His nimble fingers are able to undo all the rest of the buttons, with none of the failure in dexterity, until John's bare chest is visible in the moon- and lamplight. Sherlock has always worn the more form fitting shirts. The same is also true of his trousers. It may be a fever dream John's having, but he feels almost as though there is no fabric between them. When he blinks, then looks Sherlock over again, he's almost surprised to see that Sherlock's still wearing any clothes at all.

John sees his face as he shudders out a breath and takes a single, deliberate, step back from John. "You really are exhausted. You had better not be doing this every night."

To that, John smiles. "I'll do it every night if it means I'll get to see you."

He doesn't understand why Sherlock frowns at that. They both know this isn't quite real. 

Disappointed that Sherlock has stepped away, John sets about undoing his trousers. If this is a dream about going to bed, he's not going to do it still wearing his trousers.

Sherlock politely turns away as John's undressing reveals his briefs.

John says, "You don't have to do that, you know."

There is a distracted humming sound that comes from Sherlock, but no actual answer. 

"Here, I'll get under the covers, if it makes you feel more comfortable," offers John.

"No need for that." Yes. Sherlock's voice is definitely thicker than before. John smiles in the relative darkness.

Slowly, Sherlock turns around. His eyes immediately evaluate the sight of John lying in his bed. He nods once. "Since you have sorted out the 'blankie', it is down to me to deal with warming the milk, I suppose."

John starts slightly. "Wait, how did you...?"

There's a pause, and then Sherlock replies, "I'm just pulling it out of your subconscious, John." He leaves the room.

John closes his eyes to rest them for just one second. He is well asleep by the time Sherlock gets back.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-1.jpg)
> 
>   
> 

Days pass. A week. Two.

John keeps going to see his psychologist because that's what you do. When you're lost. When you don't know what else to do. When you're trying to keep a hold of your day job. 

When you're trying to get past the reality of your best friend's death.

In the end, he manages to spill everything to her. The man in the hoodie, the notes, the dreams he's had. When she asks him 'How does that make you feel?' he answers simply,

"Like my best friend is still alive."

It's the first time he's said those words; hadn't said them to Lestrade, nor to Molly. Forget about Mycroft. They have an uneasy truce due to the combination of Mycroft's apology and Lestrade's reminder that Mycroft lost a brother out of all this too. 

He opens up to his psychologist in ways that he can't open up to any of them, and it's for one good reason. He needs to know the answer to the one question he can't ask any of his friends. He even holds off asking his psychologist for a long time; sessions fill with more silent minutes than minutes with him talking about himself. 

Until the day he just asks it. "Do you think I'm crazy?"

His psychologist shifts in her seat, uncrossing her legs and then crossing them in the other direction. She takes off her glasses and then sits forward, but even then, she doesn't make her answer quick. John feels himself grow hot and begin to sweat. It's a horrible feeling to have here; he's sure that she notices and it will work its way into her notes on him. 

But finally, finally, she answers, "No, John, I don't think you're crazy."

John exhales a breath he wasn't even aware he was holding. 

"But...?"

His psychologist holds up her hand, stopping John's words for the first time.

"No," she says. "Let me speak. When you first came in to me, you couldn't even say Sherlock's name. Could barely admit that he was really dead. Now you're starting to accept these things, regardless of the strange circumstances surrounding them. You've told me that your friend Molly said that when someone misses someone as much as you miss Sherlock, the brain can start to look for things and see things that aren't really there, and I agree with that. I believe that that was part of your process in coming to accept things the way they are. First, you had to explore all the other options."

His psychologist waits, gauging his reaction to this announcement. John nods once. Everything she has said is fair. 

"I assure you, John, that everything you have experienced is completely natural. The seemingly unnatural parts can be explained away by the nature of your relationship with Sherlock." She, like seemingly everyone else in London, was well acquainted with the history of Sherlock and John's friendship. But she was one of the only ones who had also heard it from John himself. "So, no. I don't think you are crazy."

John blinks a couple of times, but smiles. That is it. If his psychologist doesn't think he's crazy...

*

There's another envelope of money sitting on his doorstep that arrives while John is out. John marks the twitching of his own fingers when he picks up the envelope and decides to put it on the mantelpiece to deal with it later. He has just come back from a really positive session and wants to keep that feeling of sanity for at least 20 minutes after arriving home.

He can already tell that it's another envelope filled with money from the feeling of it in his hand. 

The message that comes along inside of the envelope when John approaches it again with a calming cup of tea in hand only manages to confirm his suspicions. The note is made up from letters cut out of a newspaper that say only, _Not from Mycroft._

This is a practical joke, John tells himself. This is Mycroft. Can't trust the damn man with anything. Even an apology.

He shoots him a message. Just because it doesn't come from Mycroft personally, doesn't mean the man doesn't know anything at all about it. 

_I wonder, did your assistant have a bit too much free time? Very funny._

It's not funny. Not at all. But John has to at least try to keep things light. 

When he gets the response from Mycroft a minute or so later, it's all he can do not to slam his cup of tea down on the table.

_It's not from me this time. Although, I suspect I know who did leave it for you._

John knows exactly who he suspects. It isn't Sherlock. And it can't be Sherlock. And it _isn't_ Sherlock because Sherlock is _dead._

John doesn't respond to Mycroft again after that, doesn't have any dreams because he doesn't have any sleep.

It's a long night.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>  
> 
> [ ](http://s2.photobucket.com/albums/y40/persephone_20/?action=view&current=seeandobserve-2.jpg)  
> 

Long moments John sat in his chair after publishing on formspring and twitter, anywhere that had a readership, about what had happened on the rooftop at St. Barts before Sherlock and Moriarty's deaths. 

Lestrade would take care of the more legal avenues of information giving. By tonight, the whole city would be informed of the actual way that it fallen out. This would mean new information into the investigation, and Sherlock's name cleared.

But for now, for John... 

It isn't as bad as immediately after Sherlock's fall. Not by a long, long shot. But, as it stands, John can't stop himself from thinking of the recording Lestrade made sure to get to him. He get the sound of Sherlock's voice out of his head, not that unfamiliar tone of pain in his voice as he says John's name, as he realises that John, Mrs Hudson, all of them, are in danger because of Moriarty.

And there's nothing Sherlock could do to stop it. 

He sounds so sure of himself as he realises that Moriarty is the key. That there is some sort of a code or word that Moriarty can use to pull off the gunmen, right up to the point when Moriarty shot himself. The gun shot is loud and shocking that first time on the recording. The sounds that come from Sherlock's throat after that sound barely human. John closes his eyes, and tries not to imagine the fear and pain that would have flooded Sherlock in the moment (because he just can't imagine Sherlock being unaffected even then), tries to close his ears to the memory of those sounds.

It's the way that the scene at the pool could have played out. They'd escaped this end point then, but hadn't been so lucky as to escape it a second time around. 

There's a knock at his door. Three slow knocks, like the someone at the door can't quite get up the energy for a more lively indication of his presence. John can relate. His foot treads are heavy after he pushes himself up from the chair. 

It is Lestrade at the door. Lestrade as John hasn't seen him in a long time. The Inspector is haggard, shoulders slumped and about another dozen tell-tale signs Sherlock would have picked up that he's utterly exhausted, both physically and emotionally. 

John doesn't invite him in, doesn't have to. He just steps away from the door and starts back towards his chair. Lestrade follows after. 

"I've passed everything onto the authorities. Everyone will know now. The media have a hold of it. We should get ready for a circus. This is going to be a media frenzy."

John sits down in his chair. He knows that he should offer Lestrade tea, but doesn't go about doing so. Lestrade stands in the middle of the living room for a moment, like he's trying to figure out what's missing.

"So, it's over then," he says heavily, before he finds the chair opposite John; Sherlock's chair. 

John barely looks up, but he does give the respect of a nod. "So it would seem." He lifts a hand to wipe his brow. 

It's over. It's over. Almost better when it wasn't over. There was something of Sherlock to hold onto then. The recording of Sherlock's voice on the roof of St. Barts isn't exactly the kind of keepsake John wanted to have.

"Listen, John..." Lestrade starts. "If there's anything..."

"Keep fighting the good fight, right?" John doesn't know if he can handle listening to the inevitable end of Lestrade's sentence. What he was about to offer is nothing that John hasn't heard before. "You must be glad the case is closed, right? A closed chapter. Looks good on the reports on your way to the next big thing."

His voice has a bitter edge to it that John hadn't quite expected or intended to be in there. Lestrade had put a lot of work into this investigation. He felt guilty for the way his department had seized Sherlock before the fall, and John knew it. 

"I'm sorry, Greg, I..."

"Not to worry." Lestrade stands. "It was rude of me to just barge in here without warning. I should have known..."

"No, you're always welcome here," John says, standing up as well.

"All the same," says Lestrade. "It's been a long day for all of us. I am glad we've got this sorted. Have a good night, John."

He lets himself out just the same as he let himself in. John just sinks back into the chair and lifts a hand up to his mouth. The emptiness and pit of despair start to edge their way in. None of it, any of this, will succeed in bringing Sherlock back.

"My god," he whispers, his eyelids fluttering shut. "My god. Sherlock..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who have enjoyed and wished for a sequel, [ If Convenient...](http://archiveofourown.org/works/341796)


End file.
